


Granted

by Joel7th



Series: Eden [6]
Category: Hex (TV), Shame (2011)
Genre: Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2656700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joel7th/pseuds/Joel7th
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come to me.” He beckoned Brandon over with a smile. “And lose them,” he gave an order.</p><p>Brandon walked to the bed, losing his clothes in his wake. Naked and shameless, he kneeled down and kissed Malachi’s feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Granted

[ ](https://joel7th.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/77c41256-8bf2-4563-8735-f48f4528bbdd_zps8bdbfc26.png)

 

“My name’s Malachi. Means  _Messenger_.”

The boy’s breath, spiced with strong tequila, was feverish even at the faintest brush against Brandon’s lips.

Brandon was half-convinced that the boy would kiss him – leaning in so closely that all regards of personal space basically thrown away – but he only whispered to his lips and straightened up, face nonchalant as if all the sizzling sexual tension earlier was Brandon’s imagination alone.

“Remember it, for we shall meet again.”

The boy laughed, a bold sound that wasn’t so unpleasant, as he waltzed to the entrance, his lean figure quickly faded into the bustling of Gotham city.

It wasn’t until Malachi’s presence was entirely gone that Brandon could catch his breath. He stared at the door for several moments, cold beads trickling hotly down his neck and back.

The boy had induced great fear in Brandon; his presence, so overwhelming when he leaned closer to Brandon’s lips, had almost vacuumed all the air in his lungs. Suffocated, and yet simultaneously Brandon felt his shameful desires provoked.

He was terrified of him, of a boy barely out of puberty, perhaps not, and at the same time, he wanted him more strongly than he had anyone, men and women alike.

That night and the nights following, Brandon jerked off thinking of him, of his pale blue eyes and cheeky yet sharp smile plastering on his handsome face while he was relentlessly thrusting into Brandon.

He came hard, every single time, and was lulled into tired sleep with a phantom breath tinged with strong tequila ghosting over his nose and lips.

Then, Sissy slotted herself into his life and the shameful fantasy of the stranger boy was chased to the deepest corner of his mind, locked and safe until his sister took leave.

… And then, Sissy shattered, bringing his secluded, tiny world to the same fate as hers.

***

The second time Brandon met Malachi, he didn’t see more than the boy’s Italian shoes, snow-white and polished to perfection. He didn’t bother to lift his head and see the rest of him; he knew the haughty smirk Malachi was wearing nonetheless, having witnessed it too often in his troubled dreams.

“Look at you,” spoke the voice above Brandon, British accented, “undistinguishable from the filthy rubbish around.”

What filthy rubbish, Brandon thought. It was a little dirty, he admitted, a few dry leaves scattered here, a few empty cans and plastic bags discarded there, but there was little rubbish.  And if Brandon were to give a judgment, he’d rank it one of the cleanliness alleyways in New York.

He had only a vaguest idea of how he had ended up here, face down, sprawled and entering half-dead state. He’d tried to get up a few times, failed miserably and eventually given up. It wasn’t that he wanted to get up; he could, and would like to remain in this position until he rotted and became one with the gravel beneath him.

There was Brandon Sullivan no longer – that man had vanished and there was only a nameless wraith that had discarded his life and likewise, life had treated him the same.

Life would move on. A life lost would not halt its flow, nor would two, nor a hundred, a thousand; soon enough life would adjust itself. And those unable to keep pace with life would have to stay behind.

Brandon was determined to do as such.

A low grunt escaped from the depth of his throat when he felt a hand grabbed his hair, disheveled and caked with dirt – how long had been since he last washed it - and lifted his face just so he was met with icy blue eyes.

The queer glint in them ignited a spark in him – a sliver of strength threaded into his self-maltreated being. Twisting his body, he caught Malachi’s hand, fingers wrenching the wrist (quite delicate, to his mild surprise) as hard as his limit allowed.

The painful grip on his hair remained steel.

“My my, such a waste,” Malachi laughed. “I wonder what Dad would think if he were to learn that you can be so… rubbish…”

“Who fucking cares what your dad thinks? And who the fuck is he?” shouted Brandon, bloodshot eyes glaring at Malachi as if wanted to carve a hole in his face.

He swore he saw Malachi’s eyes flash red.

Vice-like grip was on his throat, knocking out his breath before Brandon was slammed against the brick wall. His head spun with the concussion, his vision blotched and all coherent thoughts pulled into a bottomless black hole. He felt like vomiting when he came about, only there was nothing in his stomach except sour whiskey mingled with bitter bile that burnt at his throat.

Even his little gratification of soiling the boy’s designer suit and Italian shoes were denied.

“I  _do_  care,” Malachi’s tone was low and dangerous as he brought his lips close to Brandon, a replication of their near-kiss at the bar, and whispered, “because you’re fucking wearing my dad’s face.”

Either Brandon was too muddle-headed or Malachi was making very little sense, or both, because he hardly understood a word from his mouth. That and his abrupt change of mood.

“Screw you,” Brandon muttered weakly, and expected the boy to get violent again. It was fine, he mused, even if Malachi beat him to death and left his battered body in this deserted alleyway to rot. At this point he wasn’t actually alive anymore – Sissy’s blood hadn’t just drained the life out of her; it had drained his also.

He certainly didn’t expect the space around him to swirl and shift; the momentum would have him crumpled on the spot if not for Malachi’s tight grip on him. When it abandoned him, Brandon found himself tumbled down into a body of water. His senses instantly muted, his lungs flooded and his life sucked out of him, Brandon felt the hand of death creeping on his body clearer than ever. Despite his intention to just allow the water victory, his arms reached out, desperately trying to grab onto anything,  _anyone_.

His arms caught emptiness and fell down, the same time as a hand grasped his collar and drew him out of water, out of  _death_. Brandon almost coughed out his lungs.

“That’s more like it… cleaner… less of rubbish.”

A haughty voice pierced his ears, which he immediately recognized as Malachi’s – who else could be with him then?

Where were they? The question sprung into his mind right after it finished gathering itself together. He rubbed his eyes and glanced around, catching the familiar sight of white tiles on the walls and floor, and was stupefied to realize it was his own bathroom. Somehow he had managed to teleport himself from a God-know-where alleyway back to his apartment within a few seconds.

No, not him. Brandon was sure as hell there was no such trick up his sleeves; it had to be Malachi, who was leaning over the bathtub with his pale eyes boring into Brandon’s.

There it returned, the terror laced with desire having tormented him a few weeks ago. Witnessing with his own eyes just what Malachi was capable of, his mixed feelings towards the boy increased multiple-fold.

“What do you _fucking_  want?” Brandon asked, voice hoarse and raw and his throat was pained with every syllable. His question wasn’t meant for clarification; it was only a vain attempt to deny the déjà vu of what Malachi would want with him, if the chilling fire in his eyes was any indication.

“You.” The answer was curt and Malachi closed the distance between them.  His breath was still spiced with tequila and scalding against his soaked skin. Malachi’s hand, the hand that had gripped his hair and throat, and hurt him, raised his chin and brought him into a kiss.

Their lips crushed together and Brandon’s head jerk back subliminally. Malachi’s other hand cradled the back of his head, keeping him firmly in place and leaving no possible escape. After a few quick strokes, Brandon felt Malachi’s tongue invading him, seeking conquest. His pace slowed down at first, experimentally, jestingly until it found and laced with Brandon’s, trying to coax him into its maddening rhythm. A tiny speck of pleasure sparked in his stomach and he allowed his taut muscle a little relax. He could enjoy it, he told himself; despite everything else, Malachi was a good kisser, one with abundant practice if Brandon were to put his money on him. Though Brandon was no shy virgin, he couldn’t help moaning into Malachi’s mouth.

He heard the boy’s smirk, an edgy sound ringing in his head – using his trick again? Fine, Brandon could pretend he didn’t hear a thing…

… until he felt sharp teeth worrying at his bottom lips and soon enough, Malachi bit down hard.

Brandon’s eyes shot open and his whole body jolted. His hands balled into fists, hitting, pushing at Malachi’s chest in feeble hope that he would be persuaded to let go of Brandon. Pain raked at his delicate flesh hotly and blood – he wouldn’t doubt whose – dripped down his chin. He had a vague illusion that Malachi wasn’t just biting him in his own depraved sadistic pleasure; he was sucking the life out of Brandon, and worse, Brandon could tell it was really happening.

Malachi’s grin was stained with red – the same red dying his pale irises. It was no illusion this time; the red remained as he stared into Brandon’s  _very_ soul.

He practically gasped for air after Malachi had withdrawn his soul-piercing stare. “Scared of me, aren’t you?” he asked, cupping Brandon’s cheeks in his hands. The gesture was almost loving.

Brandon’s eyes widened at the sight of Malachi’s immaculate midnight suit disperse, as though weaved from countless raven feather, and his body was unbashfully revealed to Brandon. Brandon’s gaze traveled from his neck – an inky bizarre tattoo – down the strong curves of his shoulders and chest, to the muscle of his abdomen and below…

He squeezed his eyes shut; his cheeks burnt with shame; the full view of Malachi’s nudity was wreaking havoc to his already tumultuous psyche. Lust was a scorching sword sharply penetrating him, cremating any reason and leaving ash of Brandon’s dignity in its wake. For all the pains and humiliations Malachi had brought upon him, Brandon couldn’t deny he wanted Malachi so badly…

 _…_   _Shame_.

Shielding it against Malachi’s perceptiveness was futile; his piercing eyes would  _dissect_  Brandon in milliseconds and expose it. He smirked; the wet fabric clinging to Brandon’s skin  _melted_  under the ghost of his touch.

“What are you?” Brandon murmured.

“A demon sent to snare you,” he answered.

The space around them shifted again, from the bathroom to Brandon’s bedroom. The soft mattress beneath his back was most welcoming when Malachi pushed him down, his own weight pressing against Brandon’s form afterwards.

Hands roamed all over his uncovered skin while lips mouthed at his throat, his collar bone, his chest, his hip. He left his mark every place he won, tiny little love bites oozing crimson. Brandon fought back a groan as one digit penetrated him, followed by the second, and the third.

The fingers withdrawn, replaced by something much larger, much hotter. Brandon hissed.

Pain and shame intertwined, covered in a sickeningly sweet coat of pleasure. His agony the devil’s delight, Malachi rewarded him with another bruising kiss.

“Why… me?” He mumbled, feeling tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“Didn’t I tell you already? You’re wearing my dad’s face.”

A snapping sound echoed loudly in Brandon’s shattered mind. His body began thrashing wildly, desperately, trying in vain to push Malachi off him. Malachi subdued him easily.

“Fuck you!” he shouted. The curse repeated over and over, like a broken record.

“What?” laughed Malachi. “Disgusted to be someone else’s substitute?”

Malachi’s laughter was sharp and jagged, like shards of mirror stabbing him; in each shard was the image of Brandon Sullivan, naked, used, shameful, worthless.

“You want me.” Malachi’s lips pressed to his ears as his hand reached for Brandon’s heated flesh. “I know you do. Can’t help it, right – been  _lusting_ after me since the night we met. You wanked off fantasizing me inside you, didn’t you? Now I’m here, just say it and I’ll be  _pleased_ to oblige – make you come hard like the slut you are.”

His vision blurred with tears; Malachi’s handsome features twisted unsightly.

“Or…” he whispered, “…if you wish to defy me, defy your shameful lust…”

With the surprising strength surging from disgust at himself, Brandon hit him. He didn’t expect Malachi to receive it. His head titled to one side and a drop of blood trickled down his chin, his Adam’s apple.

It landed on Brandon’s chest, burnt like boiling oil. Malachi smiled benignly.

“Granted.”

The next second, Brandon was alone in his bed; Malachi’s presence vanished like it had never existed.

Brandon stared at the empty space where Malachi had been until his eyes hurt. The temptation to close them was strong and he resisted it no more, so he did. Chill and emptiness invaded him; he shivered and wrapped the coverlet tightly around his naked form. It was of little help since the chill appeared bound to the core of his soul. It was only the lingering heat of Malachi’s blood on his chest and the brief memory of the devil inside him that kept Brandon from being frozen. It wasn’t easy, but weariness eventually lured him into sleep.

***

He cracked open an eye at the streak of sunlight caressing his cheeks.

He had had a peculiar dream. He could not recall what it had been about; all he remembered was it being… peculiar.

The blue coverlet slid off his form as he stood up, unabashed by his own nudity, and walked to the full-length mirror attached to his drawer. A few minutes were spent contemplating his reflection – nothing abnormal and probably looking a whole lot better compared to his memory – before he turned on the TV and strode to the bathroom.

He emerged from the bathroom feeling fresh and rejuvenated, all vestiges of weariness washed off and down the drain.

He listened absent-mindedly to the morning news on TV as he investigated his drawer. A body was found in a deserted alleyway – suicide it seemed. A smirk crept up his countenance. It could have been him, he reckoned, and he couldn’t hold back his laughter. He had no idea how Sissy’s death had affected him so devastatingly the last week. It had been her own choice after all: to have been a selfish brat and left her brother behind. And it had been his own choice to go down with her, almost, but he had thought better of it.

_Had he?_

He took out a black shirt – rather new since he rarely donned it, a shade too grim – and a pair of black trousers. He checked himself in the mirror and was pleased with what he saw; he wanted to look sharp on the day he returned to his company.

He put on neither tie nor scarf, baring the side of his neck to autumnal chill. He didn’t mind it at all.

***

He felt eyes on him the moment he stepped into the entrance, following him into the elevator till he reached his office. He heard gasps and whispers along the way; he knew his return would inspire a lot of gossips during coffee breaks and the corner of his lips curved up.

David greeted him with his usual cheeky grin he thought was charming, his arms outstretched in a hug. Brandon slid smoothly out of David’s reach before his boss could touch him. David’s smile slightly faltered.

“Welcome back, my favorite man,” he ventured. “I express my deepest condolences to your loss; poor Sissy was a dear. But I have to say this, Brandon, life must go on.”

“It does,” he replied coolly.

“I’m glad you didn’t let your grief consume you,” David said, putting an arm around the other man’s shoulder, which was brushed off immediately.

“Anyway, black does suit you, man,” David laughed, a little nervously, “though it looks kind of grim, don’t you think? And… you got a tattoo?! On your neck, of all places? What were you doing in your break?”

“Roaming around, not much,” replied Brandon, turning his attention to the coffee machine. He turned it on and waited for his coffee.

David tried an awkward smile, obviously being put off by his icy demeanor. “Well, good luck at work. There’s a lot to catch up on,” he said, slapping the other man’s bottom out of habit.

He soon regretted it.

David was  _terrified_  when his wrist was caught in steel grip and his body was slammed violently against the wall.

“Don’t touch me!” Brandon growled dangerously. David swore he saw the pair of cold eyes staring at him flash yellow.

“Yes… of course… I’m sorry!!” David blurted out and scurried off once he was released. He was afraid if he stayed a minute longer, the other man would have him  _torn apart_.

“What happened to the old Brandon Sullivan?” was the question haunting David for the rest of the day.

…

He took a cab and headed straight to the skyscraper located at the heart of Manhattan. At the entrance stood a pair of youths clad in black outfit who bowed at him as they held the door open for him. He took the elevator – a quick, straight ride to the top, where another pair in similar clothes stood waiting. They gave him a nod in acknowledgement and opened the door for him to enter.

“Here he is,” said a voice, clearly amused. “Told you he looks just like Dad.”

A feminine giggle echoed and a woman in backless midnight dress waltzed out to meet him. He didn’t flinch when her carefully manicured fingers traced the line of his jaw.

“Like a carbon copy,” she cooed. “Brandon isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“Welcome,” she said silkily, hooking her arm with his and leading him inside.

Malachi was half-sitting on the king-size bed, seemingly relaxed and harmless.

Brandon knew better.

The woman let go of him and returned to Malachi’s side. She kissed him briefly before settling herself on his lap.

“How was your first day?”

“Good,” Brandon answered.

“How are you feeling?”

“…Well… in control… and free.”

Free from all the shackles put on him by Sissy and ‘Brandon Sullivan.’

“Come to me.” He beckoned Brandon over with a smile. “And lose them,” he gave an order.

Brandon walked to the bed, losing his clothes in his wake. Naked and shameless, he kneeled down and kissed Malachi’s feet.

_And they will worship him like parasites_

_And he shall feed upon them_

_Thus nourished he becometh almighty_

[The Book of Orokiah]

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> *This takes place in the same universe as my other fics: Beyond Flesh & Skin, Getting Even, Resemblance, Eden, Fair Trade
> 
> *When Malachi grants a person’s wish, he/she will become Malachi’s incubus/succubus. So, Brandon has become Malachi’s incubus – a source of nourishment for Malachi’s power. When he’s Malachi’s incubus, Brandon’s soul is dead.
> 
> *Implied incestuous relationships: Malachi/Azazeal (father-son) and Malachi/Brandon (brothers). This takes place in the same universe as Eden, so Brandon’s one of Azazeal ‘sons’, making him Malachi's brother.


End file.
